


Down the Champs-Élysées

by olivestrees



Series: Paris Revisited [1]
Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Alex gets his hands on a copy of Russian Roulette, Angst, Family, Gen, Paris (City), The feels, and of course which detail does he fixate on?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:41:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28916271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivestrees/pseuds/olivestrees
Summary: Paris, 2002.On the steps of the Sacré-Cœur, a boy thumbs through his worn paperback and contemplates what might have been.
Series: Paris Revisited [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2121198
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	Down the Champs-Élysées

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after _Scorpia Rising_. Disregards _Never Say Die_.

Two weeks after Alex lands in San Francisco, he’s half-heartedly stirring his coffee in a modest café off Fillmore Street.

It’s an unremarkable day, by his standards. He’d gone about his morning ablutions as usual, followed by his standard lackluster attempts of studying, and now he’s here at his preferred café.

Enjoying his coffee among normal civilians, with their absent smiles and banal conversations. Except that isn’t quite right.

A burly dark-haired man, perhaps in his thirties, hunches over what appears to be the daily crossword. He’s broad-shouldered and wearing shades, giving off the suitably intimidating look of a hired muscle. The effect is somewhat offset by how comical he looks in his undersized wicker chair. That, and the way that the pencil he's gripping can't be larger than his thumb.

From a purely superficial perspective, there doesn’t appear to be anything particularly upsetting about the man. The man can really use another chair. 

But something in Alex screams at him to be wary.

He suppresses the urge to tense as the man drops his tiny pencil, more of a stub than anything. Casually, he sips at his sickeningly sweet coffee, keeping the man in his periphery. He hopes that his hands don’t tremble as they set down the cup.

The man scoots back in his seat. He’s clearly readying himself to extricate himself from it and head over to — who knows where. Is he here for Alex?

Alex doesn’t want to stick around to find out. He stands gracefully, takes the steaming coffee, and heads to the exit. When he’s sure the man can’t see him, he makes an abrupt left to enter the loo. Like hell if he’s going to allow this man to spoil his peaceful afternoon. He’d found this café first, after all. 

It takes Alex a solid ten minutes to realize that he’s forgotten his bag. He’s grown sloppy. 

Groaning, he unlocks his stall, washes his hands, and walks at a decidedly measured pace back to his table.

The man is gone.

Alex discreetly scans his surroundings once more before hefting his canvas satchel, still there where he thoughtlessly left it. It’s heavier.

He pauses, mind immediately jumping to the worst conclusions. A bomb? A tracker? A vial of inert, deadly poison gas. Yes, that has to be it. 

Against his better judgment, Alex digs around in the bag. He instantly locates the unwelcome addition. A pristine paperback, all sharp ridges and that undefinable fresh book smell. The covering is a pleasant, creamy off-white. He flips the book open to the first page.

And stares.

Ten hours later, he’s booked a single economy ticket to Paris. Two days, and he’s stepped off the ramp at Charles de Gaulle Airport. 

Alex has been to Paris multiple times, of course, but he resolves himself to go through all the customary tourist rites again. He’s formed unpleasant memories with this city, but it need not be that way. Especially not with what he’s learned.

The following morning, he purchases half a dozen over-priced macarons from the Ladurée bakery. He lingers around the perimeter of the Maison Berthillon, not quite able to muster up the willpower to enter. He visits the Eiffel Tower. He tries all sorts of pâtisseries and local restaurants. He walks around the circuit down the Champs-Élysées, counting his steps. He imagines his feet lightly treading over the imprints John Rider’s shoes left sixteen years ago. 

He sleeps that night feeling the closest to content he’s been in weeks.

The next morning dawns with a palette of rosy pinks and dusty golds. Alex is up in time to see the sunrise. In a coffee shop off Rue d'Argout, he finishes writing down the day’s plans in the pocket-sized notepad he’s brought. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt the motivation to write something down that doesn’t involve school. 

After a light breakfast and a workout, he takes the metro to Montmartre. 

The Sacré-Cœur is a blinding splash of white on a brilliantly blue canvas. The limestone structure stands proud and tall in its eighty-three metre glory, its grandiose archways and portico almost glittering in the dazzling sun. It hurts to look at it directly, so Alex averts his eyes and tugs his blue cap over his fringe. 

Off to the side, the lilting strain of a violin melody flutters sweetly in the breeze; the whistles of the trills and harmonics evoke the image of a bird taking flight. Alex drops a tattered five euro note into the open violin case and ambles over to a bench. He sips at his coke.

After the musician has finished busking and packed up, Alex rummages around the inside of his bag and flips his book open to the dog-eared page. He looks up.

There — on the terrace, right in front of the entrance. That’s where his dad met with his mum. A devoted, some would say foolhardy, choice. Alex doesn’t understand how an operative as ruthlessly pragmatic as Hunter would choose to mix personal affairs with business. Especially a business as deadly as SCORPIA.

They must have loved each other very much.

As Alex watches, a boy his age laughs at something his parents have said. He has dark hair and blue eyes, and he’s possibly a few years older — in uni, perhaps. The family is standing out on the terrace, untroubled and free. They’re surrounded by plenty of other tourists, all of them milling about or stopping to snap the obligatory photo, but something about the boy catches his eye.

Suddenly without an appetite, Alex pushes away his coke. He glances down at the white book, which somehow weighs a few kilos heavier in his lap. 

As the day wears on, Alex grabs a pastrami sandwich to nibble at while he trudges around Montmartre. He drifts aimlessly from one destination to the next, with all the interest of a fatigued tourist looking to simply cross items off his list. After he gets his portrait drawn at Place du Tertre, he glances spiritlessly down at his pastel likeness; the artist managed to capture a look that’s both melancholy and remote. Alex critically observes the unhappy slant of Pastel Alex’s mouth and sighs.

He takes a metro to get to the Louvre. 

Aromatic herbs waft through the air as street vendors clamor for Alex’s attention. Their overlapping voices fade into a distant buzz as he plows on, one hand shoved into a pant pocket and the other curled protectively around his paperback. 

Over the Pont des Arts, better known as the love lock bridge, Alex leans over the railing. Somewhere, someone is playing a doleful melody on a violin. 

He wonders how his life would have turned out, if his dad and mum had made it to France. They would have lived in a charming, rustic home in a suburban neighborhood, with normal, run-of-the-mill lives. On occasion, they’d visit Paris, perhaps on a holiday. He’d admire the Sacré-Cœur’s view of Paris with his parents on either side of him. He’d complete the circuit down the Champs-Élysées with his dad, the two of them ribbing on each other to see who can do it faster. His dad would let him win. 

It’s a pretty dream.

Alex takes out Yassen’s book and considers its weight. Over the past two days, he’s obsessively pored through every page, committing every detail and word to memory. 

Without a second thought, he drops it into the water below. 

He turns around and walks away.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave a comment! :)


End file.
